Until The Real Thing Comes Along
by Maple Fay
Summary: Nothing is the way it should be. Lovejoy/Jane. Post- season 6 AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Until The Real Thing Comes Along**

* * *

_**A/N:** As promised, a not so small bit of 'Lovejoy' angst. It's an AU of the final episode of season 6—for the purpose of this story, Jane doesn't come back until much, much later. As for Lovejoy… well, you shall figure this out soon enough. Enjoy!_

* * *

"You could try and _pretend_to be happy. At least once in a while."

"Oh, yes—because it's been absolutely _fabulous_ since you started doing it, right?"

"Don't you dare make this about _me_, Lovejoy. It was all your idea in the first place!"

"Why did you agree to it, then, if it makes you so miserable?"

Charlotte fixed him with a cold glare, fingers of her right hand tugging restlessly at a gold band resting on her left ring finger. "I honestly have no idea, now that you've mentioned it."

He ran a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut against the accusatory look on her face. "Fine. Great. Perfect, even. Let me know if you feel like doing something about it. I'm off."

"Where to?" _When did she learn to hiss like that?_

"I need to see a man about a house."

An eye roll. She was getting better in delivering them by the hour. "Is it about Felsham Hall again? When are you planning to give up?"

Lovejoy gritted his teeth and shrugged his jacket on, not meeting her eyes. "This will be the last one."

_Because I really need to let it go._

* * *

"Mr. Lovejoy? Christopher Langley."

"Lovejoy. Just Lovejoy, please." This was slowly getting old. Or perhaps _he_ was. "You sounded more… mature on the phone," he remarked dryly, taking in the man's—boy's more like it, straight out of college by the looks of it—fair, wavy hair, black sport jacket and high-end leather boots.

"That was my late father you talked to, Lovejoy. I'm afraid he passed away last month. Car accident."

_There goes the transaction, then. And here I was, hoping… never mind._ "I'm sorry to hear that. I will wire the deposit back into your account, and—"

"Oh, no, you misunderstood me. The offer still stands."

He blinked and raised an eyebrow at the younger man. "Forgive me, but I don't quite understand."

"Dad was about to remarry, and wanted to buy this house for his second wife, so that they could spend their time together here—and after the bastard hit him, he had just enough time in the hospital to sign it off to her in his will. She will come to live here in a couple of weeks. She doesn't know the particulars, though: that's why I'm here, to pick up the keys and such."

Lovejoy nodded, trying to wrap his mind around the whole thing. "That's very generous… of your father _and_ yourself."

The young man shrugged, burying his hands in his pockets as he stood in the middle of the lawn, surveying the façade of Felsham Hall. "My father was a theatrical producer: a wealthy man, Lovejoy. And he chose well—she's a great woman, my almost-stepmother. I don't need this house, or the money for it: not for myself, and certainly not to spite her."

That sort of thinking was quite… refreshing. "Well, Christopher, if you're sure about this—why won't we step inside and do some business?..."

* * *

He walked around the first floor rooms for the last time, stopping here and there to recall the shape of a sofa, the colour of draperies, the smell of perfume in the air…

All gone.

No surprise there, actually. It's been a while since Jane left: and he almost, _almost_ managed to get over it, and to move on with his life (not that it did him any good). The house was the only tangible thing that still linked him to the old life, with Jane, Tinker, Eric and himself working as a team, laughing together, getting ridiculously angry with each other and having a swell time… He shook his head for what felt like a hundredth time today.

Enough was enough. He would keep one set of keys, just in case—young Mr. Langley insisted on it repeatedly. He would close the doors of Felsham Hall behind him, go back to his house, his life, his _wife_, and try to make sense of all this mess.

It was high time he did that.

_Time to let _her_ go, old dog._

* * *

Naturally, nothing went according to plan.

He was just settling down on the couch in his living room—Charlotte was still giving him a cold shoulder and demanding they slept separately—when the phone rang. Cursing, he picked it up, locking the receiver between his chin and shoulder. "Yes?"

"Lovejoy? It's Christopher, Christopher Langley."

…_the hell?_ "Christopher. How can I help you?"

There was a long moment of heavy, poignant silence. Then, "Can you come over? I think we may be having a real crisis here."

Lovejoy frowned, sitting up gingerly. "Something wrong about the house?"

"Not exactly. Hard to explain. I just… can you come?"

He didn't usually do this, not for anyone—except for one person, but that was _before_—and would have probably ignored the boy's plea: but there was an urgency in his voice that made him think twice about it. And about the painfully uncomfortable couch he was presently sitting on. "Fine. I'll be there. Just… don't do anything stupid."

* * *

He all but let himself in without knocking. Stopped in the very last moment, hand grasping the door handle, and breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. _Not yours anymore, Lovejoy._

So he knocked, and waited impatiently, shuffling his feet and tapping his fingers against the doorframe. What was _taking_ the boy so long?...

When Christopher finally opened the door, his face was more or less the colour of the walls. "Thank goodness, Lovejoy… I had no idea. Really, I didn't…"

"About what, exactly?"

The boy sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair. "You better come in."

So he did.

And almost ran back out the door.

_The smell._

It was everywhere. Clinging to the walls. Embedded in the carpet. Touching his skin like a flame.

There really were no more questions to be asked. "Where is she?" he snarled, pushing the poor boy away as he walked into the hallway. "Where _is_ she?" _And how _could_ you?_

"I'm here."

True enough, she was. Leaning against the wall just inside the kitchen, arms wrapped around her middle, a thick, red coat shawl still draped across her shoulders. There were smudges of mascara on the apples of her cheeks, and she wouldn't open her eyes to look at him, even as he stood in front of her and gently took hold of her hands, not moving them from their resting place.

"Tell me you didn't know. Tell me you had nothing to do with this… this _madness_."

He shook his head, even though she couldn't see him. "I didn't. I really didn't."

"Neither did I."

"Figured as much." Slowly, he let her hands go, no longer sure whether it was alright for him to touch her. "Would you like to… be not here? Can I take you somewhere?"

She shook her head and let out a bitter chuckle, eyes still shut tightly. "Haven't you heard? It's _my house_ now."

He noticed Christopher hovering uncertainly in the corridor, and silently motioned him to go and find himself something to do. Judging from the sound of an engine being started outside a moment later, the boy chose to do so elsewhere.

Good for him. "Can I get you anything, then?"

"You can go home if you want to," she snapped, turning away from him.

"Not particularly, no."

"I'm not a child, you know. I'm perfectly capable of being on my own for a few hours, before I decide what to do with all this mess."

"Mind if I stick around? Might actually take a lesson or two from you, if you don't mind."

That finally got her to open her eyes and glare at him—although what he saw in her eyes did not make him feel any better. "I'm not in the mood, Lovejoy."

"I know. I know. I just—fancy seeing _you_ here."

It earned him a forced smile. "Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

"Not really, no. I'd rather make sure you're alright… if you don't mind, that is."

She shook her head and chuckled humourlessly, walking over to the table and leaning forward on her arms. "I thought I'd be married by now, to someone I trusted and… well, loved… but here I am, not exactly a widow, standing in the kitchen I'd never planned to find myself in again. I'm far from alright, Lovejoy—but I will be."

"I know that," he assured her, taking a cautious step in her direction. "But if I could just do something for you, anything at all…"

"You can sleep on the sofa."

_That_ he did not expect. "Pardon me?"

She rolled her head from one shoulder to the other, releasing the tensed muscles with a grimace. "You know I did not intend to come back. I feel like a heroine of a particularly cheesy farce. But since I obviously have no choice… I might as well accept the fact that my life made a full turn, and that I'm back where I started." Another humourless laugh that wrung his heart out. "And that is going to mean going back to all our antics, isn't it?"

"Things are different than when you left," he said softly, clenching his hands into fists. "There are no more antics to go back to. But I will stay, if it makes you feel better."

She nodded distractedly, and glanced at him fleetingly. "Thank you. And I'm sorry, I'm not thinking straight tonight. Had a _little bit_ of a shock."

"I thought as much. Go on, try to get some rest, then. Whenever you feel like talking… I'll be there." Those last words stung, awfully familiar, but he chose not to deliberate on it right now.

She almost managed a smile at that. Almost. "Thank you, Lovejoy. And… goodnight."

He watched her leave the kitchen and climb the stairs, taking the stairs only one at a time, her hand grasping the rail so hard the knuckles turned white. He listened to her footsteps in the corridor, the metallic rasp of suitcase locks being forced open. Breathed in the faint aroma of her perfume.

It was the way it should be.

And yet terribly, terribly wrong.

_Goodnight, Jane._

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Whoever was currently at the door wouldn't stop pounding it.

Lovejoy groaned into his pillow and rolled over to get away from the noise…

…only to fall off from the sofa and bang his shin on a coffee table.

He leaped up, cursing loudly, and looked around, his senses slowly coming back to him as his head cleared off the sleepy haziness. This was not him bedroom, or the living room. This was Felsham Hall. He came here last night, because young Christopher called him…

…and he wasn't alone.

The banging on the door continued, so he let the thought drop and quickly pulled on his jeans, walking barefoot across the hall. "Yes, yes, I'm coming!... What's the matter with you…" he yanked the door open, and let out a half-angry, half-relieved sigh, "…Beth?"

"I knew you'd be here," she stated, leaning casually against the doorframe. "You always come here when you and Charlotte fall out."

"The house's been _sold_, Beth. I shouldn't even be here, for all you knew."

"It was worth a try," she answered with an uncommitted shrug. "And look, here you are."

He rubbed at his forehead, feeling a headache blooming somewhere behind his eyes. "Strangely enough, yes. Was that all you wanted? To make sure I was indeed lurking in the insides of Felsham Hall?"

The girl huffed indignantly. "You haven't come to the shop. Charlotte was worried."

_Angry seems more probable._ "Yeah, I bet." He should talk to her, he knew that much—but there were so many questions waiting to be asked… "Tell her I need some time on my own, would you? I'll drop by in the afternoon when Tink's there; if she wants anything from me, she can leave him a message."

Beth rolled her eyes, but knew better than to question his decisions. "If you say so. Can't say I like the way things are between the two of you, though. You'll work it out, right?"

He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezed it affectionately, grateful for her support: even if she did show it by means of spying on him and complaining about his ways. "I'll try, kiddo. Although it might take quite a while."

"It always does with you," she winked at him and stepped down the stairs. "I'll see you later, Lovejoy."

He watched her go with a fond smile, thinking of how she would permanently walk away from his life in less than two weeks. A creak of a floorboard behind his back alerted him to his companion's presence, but he didn't move, letting her take over the control.

"Who was that?" Her voice was low, and a little raspy from sleep—and as she came to stand in the doorway next to him, he caught a glimpse of her old, navy dressing robe out of the corner of his eye.

"Beth. My assistant. Well, at least she was—she's been offered another job, and she intends to take it."

"What about Eric?"

"Eric's gone, Janie. Running a pub with an uncle of his."

"Oh. When did that happen?"

"A while ago."

She sighed and leaned on the other side of the door, embracing her sides. "I'm sorry, Lovejoy. I know how much you liked him."

"Doesn't matter," he protested without much conviction, and turned to look at her properly. "Things change, Janie."

Jane shook her head and smiled at the lawn outside, not meeting Lovejoy's eyes. "They sure do."

"Did you plan on ever coming back here?"

"Not really. I did talk about my life here a lot, though. There are some things you can't just let go of. Robert was a good man, and he… he loved me very much. He must have believed I would be happy here, or he wouldn't have bought it. It's just that… I'm not sure if there's even a point in my staying here, after everything that's happened."

_I could find a reason or twenty for you to stay, but this doesn't really matter, does it?_ "And you, Janie? Did you love him?"

"I don't think that's any of your concern, Lovejoy."

He cringed inwardly and closed his hand into a fist. "Sorry, no. My bad. Would you like some coffee?" He turned on the spot and marched off to the kitchen, caring not one bit that he was acting like a lovelorn teenager, told off by the girl he fancied. After all… no, he wouldn't go there.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

"Who's Charlotte?"

He was tempted to ignore the question, or to throw her 'not-any-of-your-concern' remark back at her. To bite, to sting, to draw blood—or at least some kind of an emotional reaction. But he didn't.

"Charlotte runs the shop now." A slurp of hot, bitter coffee. "We got married three months ago."

Jane's fingers, drawing circles on the tabletop next to her teacup, froze and rested heavily on the wood. "Congratulations." The smile she gave him didn't quite reach her eyes. "And do I get to meet the new Mrs. Lovejoy?"

"She's not 'Mrs. Lovejoy'. She kept her name. After all, would _you_ have wanted to become—" He bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood, but the damage had already been done.

"Well, that was never an option, was it?" Jane's voice was soft and breezy, but it still managed to make him shake with silent fury.

"Not for _my_ lack of trying."

She winced and looked away, fingers tightening around the cup. "Are we really going to do this now, Lovejoy?"

He wanted to tell her that yes, they were, and they _should_ be doing so—but managed to pull himself together, albeit with much difficulty. "No, of course not." _Although we need to, and we both know it._ "Should I leave you alone now?"

"I'm not sure I'd make for an enjoyable company either way," she answered dismissively, avoiding his gaze—a game they seemed to have perfected since the previous night. "I need to unpack… decide what to do next. How about I call you later? You haven't changed your number, have you?"

"The number's the same, yes. I simply don't think I'll be at home tonight."

Jane finally looked at him, furrowing her brows. "Is something wrong, Lovejoy?"

"Only most of the things, and lots of them at the same time. You shouldn't trouble yourself with all that."

"I shall be the judge of that. But I gather you'd rather not go back home tonight?"

He simply shrugged, swallowing the last of his coffee. Jane kept her eyes on him, deep in thought.

"I'm going to need a car," she said at long last, having apparently come to some sort of a decision. "Could you possibly get me one? A rental should do for now. You know my preferences—something big and sturdy enough to fit a handful of items…"

"Are you planning on reopening the business?" he cut through her musings, more excited by the prospect than he cared to admit.

"I might. Robert had been very generous in his will, but I couldn't very well settle for being a rich widow—especially since I'm _not_ one. I'd like to visit some old contacts, check the possibilities…"

"You're going to need some help with that," he blurted out, half-statement, half-plea, fixing her with a hard, yet not hostile look. "And we have to get a move-on, if you want to have some things done today."

She nodded in acknowledgement, and stood up, picking up her cup and his mug to take them to the sink. "Very well. If you really think you can spare the time."

A part of him wanted to make her sit back down and _listen_, listen to him talk: about what the life had been like after she left, about Charlotte and her place in all of this, about Eric's leaving and the business being bad… All the crucial, important things that needed to be addressed beforehand, should they really decide to do this: to go back to the way things were before.

_This could never happen. Not like it had been._

And the other, more prominent part of him, refused to acknowledge it with a five-year-old-like stubbornness.

So he watched Jane rinse the dishes in silence, and put his jacket on, fiddling with the car keys in his pocket. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

She looked up and smiled at him: a warm, soft smile the made him remember all the things he was desperately trying to forget. "I'll be here."

Which was both a blessing, and a curse.

* * *

He got her a Rover, an exact copy of the one she used to have. Put his own car in an alley close to his house, having made sure Charlotte wouldn't be able to see it from any of the windows. Filled a duffel bag with a few necessities.

It felt very much like running away.

**TBC…**


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** I would hereby like to express my profound gratitude to everyone who read and review this story: your support really keeps me going._

_This part has been heavily inspired by 'Dainty Dish', 'Taking the Pledge', and Fiona Apple's music.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

It was the old Mr. Bigelow, previously employed at Gimbert's Auction House, that used the word for the first time.

"Back to your partnership, is it, Lovejoy?"

_What partnership?_

He gave the old man a tight smile, cowardly avoiding Jane's eyes. "You might say that, Mr. Bigelow."

"What does Charlotte say about your going astray like that, then?"

This time he didn't even manage a grimace. "I have yet to inform her about this development. And I would prefer to be the person who does, if you don't mind, Mr. Bigelow."

"Naturally, naturally… Well, it was very nice to see you again, Lady Felsham. I shall telephone you tomorrow with the details of one particular businessman you might want to get in touch with."

Jane smiled brilliantly and extended her hand to the old man, clutching her handbag tightly, body angling away from Lovejoy. "Thank you, Mr. Bigelow, I appreciate it very much."

They walked outside in silence, her knuckles turning white against the dark leather. He wanted to reach out and touch her—_needed to_—but didn't.

What does one say at a time like this?, he wondered, turning the key and starting the car. Does one lie, the way they always have? Does one tell the truth for the very first time?

He knew lies weren't what he needed now. Perhaps they never were, not really, and he'd been lying to himself all along.

Lies. Promises. Vows. _To have and to hold, in sickness and in health._

_What partnership?_

This was never 'grown-up serious', this not-partnership with Jane.

It was perhaps the only _real_ thing he had ever known.

And now they were sitting in a car, again, him at the wheel, ready to head off to Felsham Hall where she wouldn't shoo him away for the night, even though this time he actually had a home to go to. A wife, however much disappointed in him, who waited for his return—only if to yell at him and make his life miserable.

He never wanted to be anywhere else than this cramped, slightly uncomfortable space smelling of leather, with a whiff of Jane's all familiar perfume on top.

_This isn't real._

But if it wasn't, then the whole world would lose its meaning.

"Lovejoy?"

She was looking at him with quiet concern painted on her face, frowning slightly. "Is everything alright?"

There were too many ways to answer that—all of them difficult, all of them true. So he went for the one that was neither.

"It's fine, Jane. Everything is fine."

* * *

Only it wasn't.

It wasn't fine when she came down for dinner straight out of a shower, wet tips of her hair plastered against the flawless skin of her neck, flushed a little from the hot water, the 'v' of her robe a fracture deeper that it had been that very morning. She probably didn't even realize.

And why should she?, Lovejoy wondered, sipping gloomily on a glass of Scotch he'd poured for himself. She was at home—as much as she might have wanted to deny it, she was already starting to relax in the all-familiar surroundings of Felsham Hall, reclaiming the place for herself, the way it should have been—and she was with a friend, somebody she trusted: not a potential lover, or whatever it was that people called it these days.

_Missed opportunities._

She was never going to look at him in any other way.

And even if she did, she would never tell him, not after everything that had happened.

He would always remember Brighton, when they took those few cautious steps towards each other, his heart beating wildly against his chest, and that light in her eyes, pleading, burning, so full of longing, of _understanding_—and then she was in front of him, and she opened her mouth: he knew he would take anything she chose to give him, any scrap at all, so angry at himself and so chilled by the fighting between them and (_what partnership?_) everything he trusted in slipping out of his grasp; and she looked him in the eye and said…

_I've seen the juggler._

Yes, it had been too late then. It was even more so now.

"Come back, Lovejoy."

Blinking, he snapped out of his reverie to find Jane standing right in front of his armchair, looking down at him, hands empty, hanging loosely by her sides. "Sorry, Janie. You were saying?"

She shook her head slowly, quiet meditation in her gaze. "I wasn't. But I _have_ been thinking… would you rather go back to your place? Patch… things… up?"

"My marriage is not exactly a quilt," he snapped impatiently, irritated by his own thoughts as much as by her obvious indifference to his feelings. (And what were those, exactly?) "Besides, I have told you—it's alright."

No, it's not, Jane's eyes told him. "What were you thinking about, then, if not your marriage?"

"The juggler in Brighton."

She frowned, taking a step back. "Why ever would you go back to that?"

"Wasn't it when we blew everything for the last time? I was simply reminiscencing."

"Lovejoy-"

"No, Jane," he interrupted her, getting up and putting his half-full glass aside, "don't 'Lovejoy' me. I need to talk to you about this. I need to tell you—"

"No."

Her eyes were soft, infinitely calm, and set him ablaze. "Why wouldn't you just let me _talk_ to you, Jane?" he growled, hands curling into fists. He was a hair's breadth away from turning on his heel and storming out of the house into whatever darkness was waiting outside, figuratively speaking or not. She was breaking him apart simply by being there, out of touch, as unreal as she had been before coming back from America.

"Nothing good ever came from our talking about it," she pointed out quietly. "We were always able to convince ourselves that what we wanted was precisely what shouldn't be happening—what should never happen. Look what good it has brought us!"

"Do you have a better solution?" He might have raised his voice by now, he couldn't really tell. "Things cannot stay the way they are, Jane. Not if this thing is supposed to work out."

"No, they cannot. You're absolutely right."

"Then wha—"

* * *

It was the greatest, biggest, most fierce fight they'd ever had.

They kissed to injure. Lips, teeth, tongues, sharp angles, short, nervous movements. Her hands were in his hair, pulling. His teeth marked her collarbone, making her hiss and scratch her nails down his back in retaliation.

Then came a few ripping sounds, and everything stilled.

"Jane."

"Lovejoy, don't—"

_Spoil it. I know. _"I won't."

The rhythm changed, the strikes falling further apart. Faced with the white, flawless skin, he could do nothing but surrender, and he knew she did, too, when her hands covered his chest, her mouth placing kisses over his heart over and over again. He smoothed a thumb across her forehead, flicked a tongue over her earlobe. Kept on tasting her, skin, sweat and fear mingled with lust, for him, because of him. She did her own tasting, unwavering, insistent, demanding the way he had always suspected she would be.

"Tease," she breathed out and pulled him up, and down, and up again, hands tangling over the sheets, fingers twisting, lips finding pieces of skin to latch on to.

"Yours," he said into her neck, not sure if it was an answer to her remark, a declaration of peace, or yet another challenge.

"Don't make promises."

"I would keep them, for you."

"Every promise is in part a lie, Lovejoy."

"What if it could be true?" He pressed on, forward, mapping her, following the arch of her back with his fingers, mouth latched to her shoulder.

"_This_ is true enough."

Oh, it was more than that.

It was _real_.

* * *

He lost himself, and she found both of them.

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He woke up fairly early, the sun still low over the brim of their world, Jane's lean, pale body curled under the duvet next to his.

He closed his eyes and breathed in, slowly, letting the air fill each and every bit of his lungs, travel to all the cells in his body, and make him believe. _This was real._

He felt pleasantly tired, anchored in the reality by the sheer enormity of everything that happened between them, the miracle that bent his whole world backwards, turned it upside down and made him re-evaluate every single choice he's ever made. Well, no, perhaps not.

But it _had_ been absolutely spectacular.

Lovejoy reached out and traced the back of his hand down the curve of Jane's hip. There was poetry in it—in them—but the prose lurked right around the corner.

"What are you thinking about?"

He smiled and placed his hand more firmly against her flesh, feeling possessive and protective at the same time. "_Had we but world enough, and time…_" he quoted, and watched Jane eyes open slowly and lock with his as she inched closer to him, into the circle of his arms. She was cool, delicate and smooth, and he cradled her with reverence, brushing his lips against her forehead with every other breath he took.

"Is that what we've become? You, quoting Marvell, and me, your 'coy mistress'?"

He winced uncomfortably and spread his fingers across her back. "That's not what I meant, Jane, and you know it."

"That's the way it is, though, isn't it?"

And there it was. The prose. The world outside has let itself in to their bedroom, unwelcomed, uninvited. "It doesn't have to be."

"Lovejoy, you got married not four months ago."

"And I know now that I shouldn't have done so," he admitted grumpily, staring defiantly at the ceiling. Jane raised her head from his chest and propped herself up on one elbow, looking at him expectantly. He groaned, shooting her a pleading look. "Is this really the best time to have this conversation?"

"Will there _ever_ be a good time?" she quipped, and pressed a chaste kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Trust me, Lovejoy, I don't like the idea of doing this any more than you do."

"Then why do it at all?"

"Lovejoy—"

"I know, Janie," he sighed, nudging her temple with his nose. "I know. What do you want me to say?"

"Are you going to talk to Charlotte?"

"I don't want to. But I will. Just—"

"—not quite yet?"

He nodded gratefully. "No, not quite yet."

"Would you have left her, if I hadn't come back?"

Ah, the question that defines it all. "I cannot tell you that. I would have probably wanted to. Not sure if I'd have found a reason to do so."

"So _this_ is what I am, then? The woman that makes you break your vows?" There was no real bite in her voice, but Lovejoy knew her well enough to know it has really been bothering her, even among all the peaceful, contented afterglow she was basking in.

"I would rather describe you as the woman that makes me see the light, and puts me on the right path."

She rolled her eyes, but put her head back on his shoulder, lips brushing his collarbone not quite accidentally. "I knew you'd rather romanticize the whole thing than deal with the consequences."

"Is it really so wrong to be fond a romance?" he asked smugly, his hands wandering, mapping, exploring. "I didn't hear you complain about it last night."

"I must have been otherwise preoccupied," she deadpanned, but made no move to stop him.

So he didn't.

* * *

He could have probably delivered countless similes to describe it. How she was the final destination of his journey. How she tasted better than honey, or chocolate, or all other things he used to enjoy as a kid. How she'd go to his head like the best whisky, make him blind to everything else in the world, and forget everything he ever knew. How he longed to draw passages from Shakespeare's sonnets on her skin, and trace every line around her eyes with his lips.

He could have, if she hadn't rendered him utterly speechless.

* * *

Once he got his voice back, he started to complain. Naturally.

"Why must we do this _today_?"

Jane met his eyes in the mirror, applying her make-up with careful consideration. "No time like the present, Lovejoy. Strike the iron while it's hot."

"This is precisely what I'm talking about, Jane!" he pouted, patting the mattress next to him invitingly and making her chuckle with soft indulgence. "Aren't you going to finally start treating me seriously?"

"Of course I am," she answered, rising from her seat and walking over to the wardrobe without as much as a second look at him. "Which is exactly why I'm going to drag you out of my bed, no matter whether you scream and plead, and make you accompany me while I visit the customer Mr. Bigelow told us about."

Grunting, Lovejoy pushed the covers away and sat up, his toes brushing the floor with obvious hesitance. "Must we really do this thing today?"

"You're being repetitive," Jane remarked with a fond half-smile. "Besides, if you like spending so much time in bed, wouldn't it be advisable to have a financial cushion to land on?"

"I still can't say I approve," he complained, stopping on his way to the bathroom to kiss her brow. She swatted his naked behind playfully and shook her head, heading downstairs.

"No, Lovejoy, I didn't think you would."

* * *

"See? I was right. We should definitely have stayed home."

Jane frowned at him, clearly not following his train of thoughts. "How do you mean?"

"That's Tinker's bicycle right there," he pointed at the vehicle in question with his chin, hands clenched on the steering wheel to the point of his knuckles turning white.

"Oh." Jane blinked in surprise, but otherwise didn't seem disturbed by the fact. "I suppose he has to find out about all this sooner or later…"

"Yes, well, that's not the end of it."

"Lovejoy, the suspense is killing me."

"Tinker may have a whole of experience in working for what used to be my company, but he is not allowed to sign any papers or make any significant decisions on his own."

This finally sank in, and made Jane blush a little. "Which basically means that, if he's here now, your wife won't be far behind."

"Exactly." He drummed his fingers against the wheel, fidgeting far too much for a man his age. "Shall we turn around, come back some other time?"

An unmistakable sound of car wheels weighting down on the gravel road behind them forced Jane to swallow around whatever answer she might have wanted to give him. "There might be just _a little_ too late for that, Lovejoy."

**TBC…**


End file.
